Overload
by rewritetheending
Summary: "She has the passing thought that she's even colder now than she was that afternoon in the grass, finding it harder to breathe than when a bullet had pierced her chest. His words always come at the wrong time." A one-shot of frustration and fear, set during Always (4x23).


Being blessed with the full use of all five senses is not something she's ever questioned before, but now they're overwhelming in a way she hadn't expected, and Kate wonders if her psyche may simply fracture under the imagined weight, left in pieces on the floor of her apartment. It wouldn't be her first breakdown, but the timing would be poor.

Sight. It's the most obvious at the moment. The sense she won't be able to deny, even if her eyes slam shut and the image of him fades to black. She's already catalogued every new line on his face, the bags that suggest he hasn't slept, and the unfamiliar frown. There's a swirl of fear and regret turning his usually bright eyes to an unwelcome dark, and she's certain the image will return in her nightmares. She's invited this stranger into her home – and so much further than that, if she's honest – and she searches for something gentle in his expression, in his posture. Anything that might reassure her.

Smell is a strange thing, bringing back memories of the times they've been physically close, though never close enough. It's a difficult description to capture, but his scent has always been soothing. It's _clean_ , somehow sharp and masculine, even as it's as soft as she'd expect from him. But today the aroma is capped with the strength of his leather jacket, and as much as she typically loves leather, it's all wrong here. A fight where she doesn't want one.

Taste wasn't something she would have expected to notice. Not then anyway. But she can't ignore the tang, metallic and easy to identify. She must have bitten too fiercely into something – lip, tongue, cheek – giving some tiny part of her body a chance to escape the imminent threat, but she wishes she could chase the flavor of blood with the taste of him. She thinks she remembers what it was like, sipping from his mouth during a ruse that failed to fool either of them; it was so long ago, but perhaps all of their chances exist in the past.

Sound is unsettling when it only comes from afar. Her windows are cracked open and she picks up the distant rumble of a conversation on the street. A baby wails an untranslatable plea to a caregiver who is too slow to respond. And somewhere a car alarm cuts through the air, clichéd in its cry, and leaving her feeling as though she's supposed to heed its warning. But inside her apartment, there is nothing at all; she's not even sure she's breathing. Only a few seconds pass, and the silence turns it into an eternity.

Touch is missing as she stands inches from him, and she becomes almost desperate for it. He's just told her about Montgomery and a package and a deal for her life and a mystery about which he knows too much. She's falling, the rabbit hole wider than it's been in years; the darkness beckons and she needs to hold onto to something – _anything_ – that can keep her from hitting rock bottom. He's the obvious choice, broad shoulders ready to bear the burden she can't, but she doesn't understand yet. She has questions, and isn't sure she wants the answers.

She reaches for him anyway, the fifth sense satisfied when she steps forward to clutch at his jacket.

"Are you a part of this?" she whispers, the lack of volume belying the urgency with which she asks. Because if he is involved as anything more than a well-meaning pawn, if he's truly turned against her in a way she never saw coming, then she'll let go and allow the freefall to take over.

She's met with a bunch of vague responses, half-truths meant to keep her calm, though all they do is infuriate her further. Protection means nothing to her – she's never really valued her life the way she should – and her partner has been dancing toe to toe with the enemy, sitting on leads she could have chased, meeting with a man she could have interrogated. Everything has been in the palm of his hand for god knows how long, and he chose to close his fingers around it instead of offering the information to her as the gift she's been long denied. And she just wants to know why.

"Because I love you." His declaration is quieter than it should be, breathed against her lips as they fight with their bodies pressed together. She has the passing thought that she's even colder now than she was that afternoon in the grass, finding it harder to breathe than when a bullet had pierced her chest. His words always come at the wrong time.

He accuses her of knowing his feelings all along, and he's right of course. And she loves him, but it doesn't stop her from doing what she can to turn everything back onto him. _His_ choices. _His_ betrayal. _His_ failures. It's all better than facing the ugly truth about herself; she spends countless hours on that already. So she slips her hands beneath the jacket where she can claw at him through his shirt, ten daggers dulled by the fabric separating her from his skin. He lets her try to hurt him in the only way she can now, her silence having done most of the damage long ago.

Meanwhile, he's anything but silent.

"Four years I've been right here. Four years, just waiting for you to open your eyes and see that I'm right here, and that I'm more than a partner." His voices cracks, as does her heart, and he gathers himself before he continues. "Every morning, I bring you a cup of coffee just so that I can see a smile on your face, because I think you are the most remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating person I have ever met. And I love you, Kate, and if that means anything to you – if you care about me at all – just don't do this."

 _This_. He's probably referring to her reckless desire to pursue the very men who would just as soon stab her and leave her to bleed out in the shadow of her mother, but she wonders if any part of him is afraid of something entirely more immediate.

She's terrified of what she's about to do.

Before she can even properly kiss him, she's biting at his lower lip, the sting an introduction to everything that will follow. And she wants to soothe it a moment later, maintain the delicate balance between love and hate, but he's having none of it; he bites back, willing to see how far she'll take this particular battle.

She kisses him hard, all tongue and teeth, anger a chaotic collision between them, twisted with the growl of each other's name and more than a few profanities. He finally reaches for her, but she knocks his hands away, frustrated with the barriers that still keep her from marking him in the way she wants. Barely easing back from the kiss, she huffs her annoyance and slaps at his leather jacket until they work together to shove it off his shoulders and jerk it away.

As she untucks his shirt, scraping her nails along his abdomen, she falls forward and cries against the side of his neck. "My life. _Mine._ You don't get to decide."

His hand is fisted in her hair before she can blink, her head yanked backward until he can kiss her again, and she thinks he must be able to taste the bile churning heavy in her gut. When he stops, they're eye to eye and neither of them will give the other the satisfaction of looking away. "They're going to decide. They're going to come for you, Kate."

She doesn't want to hear any more, can't let the verbal back and forth continue when it will only end in disaster. Maybe what they're doing will destroy them anyway, but she's intent on shutting him up until she knows for sure. Her mouth chases another heated kiss, a dreadfully beautiful thing, and her hands work at unfastening his pants. Any protest he might make is quickly overcome by the relieved groan she feels against her lips when her palm slides over him, finding him thick and ready.

Her hand slips free of his pants before any agreement can be reached, grasping for his arm instead; she steps backward with him in tow, bringing him toward the painting that hangs on her wall and better light for what she needs show him. She offers a glance over her shoulder at the fleeing woman, wondering – not for the first time – whether she'll make it, or whether hell will continue to rain down on her until she surrenders to the inevitable end.

Shaking the question away, she turns back to him, scared even as she feels the fire light up her eyes. Aware that he's waiting, his glare no weaker now than a few minutes ago, she brings her hands to her blouse and tears the two sides apart, buttons ripped from the material without any regard for where they'll land. And then so much of what she would have predicted fails to come true, his focus never dropping from her face. She's largely bared to him, chest heaving with the adrenaline still coursing through her body, the lacy line of her bra enticing to anyone who's given the privilege to look upon it, but he hasn't broken eye contact. He's unflinching, even when presented with a reason to be anything but steady.

It pisses her off.

Not only because she's trying to break him. She'd like that, too, but it's not her main reason for standing before him with her shirt wide open. No, she needs him to _see_ , to be aware of how real this is to her and why she doesn't think she can back down, even if she wants to.

His pants are unzipped and his shirt is disheveled, but she looks past his clothing to the arms that hang limp at his side, wrapping her fingers around his wrist until she can force his hand upward. "Look at it, Castle. _Touch_ it. You think I don't know what's at risk here? I can't _forget_ it because I see this scar every fucking day of my life. And it's mine, too."

He still doesn't give in, his jaw tight with the restraint he's exercising, and she never expected him to have this kind of control. He's insatiably curious about all things, but he refuses to look at her scar. He won't touch it either, his hand holding its position just a few inches away.

"God dammit, Castle! You've fucked with my life from every possible angle, going behind my back and taking away my choices, but you can't handle a fucking scar?" She releases his wrist, scrambling to unbutton her pants and tug her zipper down. Then she pushes her pants and underwear over her hips until they drop to her knees. "Then what about the rest of me? Look at _me_. Touch _me_."

Even though she extended the invitation, issued the demand, her mouth falls open with the force of being slammed into the painting. The kiss comes quick and dirty, then she feels him working at his pants until they're no longer an obstacle.

He still hasn't spoken, so she fills the silence. "Yessss. Fuck _me._ "

His body is tight against hers, and then two of his fingers are buried deep, no warning offered, no preamble necessary. She's wet, years of wanting making themselves known to him now, and he moans his approval as her muscles contract against him. He plays her perfectly, but she won't be passive in this, riding his hand in search of the angle that will send her flying. The fight has worked her up enough that the much-needed release is close, so damn close, and she grinds her clit against the heel of his hand as he curls his fingers inside her.

Then just as suddenly as he'd touched her in the first place, he's gone again, leaving her clenching around the space he's abandoned. She doesn't have the chance to scream at him for making yet another decision on her behalf; she's focused on staying upright when he forces her to turn away from him, her pants caught uncomfortably between her legs. She's prepared for what comes next, her palms flat against the painting before he bends her forward and slides deep on one long thrust.

There's nothing kind or tender about their union, frustration and fear taking the lead instead. He's unforgiving as he pumps into her, filling her so completely that she feels whole for the first time since she met him, and she already regrets the way he'll walk away from her tonight. He's driving into her again and again and again, his fingers bruising on her hips, and she doesn't want him to stop.

And as she attempts to memorize every moment, she's struck once more by the sensory overload. She raises her eyes to the woman and her private apocalypse, inhales the telltale scent of arousal, sucks his lingering anger from her tongue, listens to the relentless slap of skin on skin punctuated by one-word cries, and revels in the feeling of them joined so intimately. It's staggering, but she doesn't lose her careful control until she's on edge again, ready to beg him to let her come. He slows the rhythm until he's barely moving inside her, draping himself over her body instead, one arm around her waist and the other cupping her breast as he rocks languidly.

"I love you, Kate Beckett. And I can't watch you die for your cause."

The words are gentle against her ear, the responding chill immediate, and the tears falling soon after. But she ignores them, repeating the argument she'd tried to make earlier. "My life. Mine. Mine, Castle. Mine. _Please_."

He remains pressed along the curve of her back, but speeds up just enough. And as she finally tenses in his arms, her climax summoning his when her body pulls him deeper, his fingertips skate over her scar and hold her there.

"Ours."


End file.
